did someone say go?

Somehow, speed and this oh my gawd, it be hot doesn't seem to go together in my eyes - but the boys seem to operate according to an entirely different set of specs. Which would explain, come to think of it, oh so much.

A couple of months ago, we were given a hand-me-down bike. Gig fell in love with it, mourned when it was too big, and reluctantly allowed the Eldest to sit on it. Briefly. When removed from the bike, the Eldest screeched bloody murder - the bike was too tall for him, also.

The Man shook his head. Maybe if we took it to a bike shop? 


Upstairs, the boys squabbled over the blue bike - no, the purple! - the one with the bell! - but can't Mum move the bell? - oh, yeah, but I want the one without the training wheels - oh, me too! said his sibling, gloriously indifferent to his lack of two-wheeled experience. Me, too, he repeated. Firmly.

1.2 inches of seat adjustment later, and we had ourselves some speed. Irregular and slightly scraped at first, but then? Then we had this:

And, to be fair, they did slow down so that my poor wee camera could capture them.

********************************************

Feeding the speed demons requires an equally speedy dinner, because while they might be fast on the road, the lads flag quickly when its time to come inside. But this salmon and salad meal gets thrown together in about 20 minutes, with a little advance prep.

garlic, with a little yogurt & dill sauce:

adapted from (no joke) Garlic, Garlic, Garlic - credit for the adaptation goes to one of our favorite children's librarians. 

1 1/2 cups plain yogurt

1/3 cup fresh lemon juice

2 fat cloves garlic, pressed or minced

freshly ground pepper

1 tsp dried oregano, or 1/2 tsp fresh

1 big handful chopped dill

optional: a sprinkle of mint

Mix thoroughly, and set aside. Covered, the sauce should keep in the refrigerator for a week.

Meanwhile....take a slab of salmon, drizzle with olive oil, salt, freshly ground black pepper. Drizzle a bit of maple syrup on top. Grill or broil until it flakes gently in the middle.

Into a bowl, toss a whatever is in the fridge salad. Yesterday, this salad looked like this:

1/2 of a small Napa cabbage, thinly sliced

a shred of a radiccio

a handful of lettuce from our garden

thin strips of apples

2 scallions, sliced

a big spoonful of green olives

1 underripe mango, sliced into strips

Toss in the bowl, along with a dressing. Yesterday, our dressing was: olive oil (drizzle on salad, toss until salad is coated), salt, pepper, garlic powder (toss again, until spices are distributed). A spritz or two of Bragg's (a recommendation from a wise friend, whose children eat kale - think of it, kale! - with Bragg's sprayed on top), a drizzle of honey (1 Tb?) and a tablespoon or so of vinegar.

Serve with a bowl of leftover rice, or some boiled potatoes - preferably the wonderfully lumpy ones that Gig picked out at the market, and then was only reluctantly persuaded to share. The slightly charred, caramelized flavors of the fish match up nicely with the slightly sweet salad. There might be more subtle ways to balance this gentle, summery sweetness, but I'm not a subtle person. I like the coolness and the garlicky bite of the yogurt sauce, and I know that tomorrow, it'll be lovely with just the boiled potatoes, a pickle or two, and a peach. The day after, I'll probably use the sauce as a salad dressing...but I'll wait a couple of days after that, before I use it as a dipping sauce for some pan-fried tilapia. 

And then? peas.

so, in case you missed it? summer

of course, if you are at all unclear on the subject, you most definitely do not live at my house. Here, the mornings be loud and the afternoons be bitchy, and periodically the Eldest will wander over and explain that he is oh, so very tired. You know, he'll say confidingly, the Gigs* woke me up an hour - no, two hours - early this morning. Which is to say that, his brother woke up at his internally cuckoo-clocked hour of 6:something wee am, rather than letting the Eldest snooze until 7ish.

My parenting position on this sort of thing is, officially, that there are many reasons that it can suck to be the older child, and this might be one of them. Also, that the Eldest spent oh, five? years requiring us to make him the center of our attention - and gently accepting mid-field, slightly off-center. The morning adoration and play with me! It's a day! Let's play with something FUN! from his sibling is just deserts.



 So, yes. Summer. It started gently, with the Eldest transforming into lo! a fourth grader. Don't ask me what it means, except that I'm pretty sure that there's a growth spurt in there somewhere. Eventually. Also? A sudden, horrified awareness that if someone makes trouble, the mature, sensible fourth grader might be part of a group held responsible. Hm.

Shortly his mother stopped smirking in corners where she thought he couldn't see, the smaller one dusted off his hands, was offered and solemnly wielded the rose-shaped light saber of the Padawan, graduating to apprentice Jediship. (or some such) And I'm going to hold the grin in my tone here, but you know that it was a soggy occasion.

The Preschool of Wonders was wise enough not to equip their graduates with lightsabers - they gave them kiddush cups, instead. Armed with a nice bit of Judaica, the kidlets trotted happily off after a slightly adapted "Tick, Tock" song, wondering why that last line had come with a sudden round of adult mucus. They were, after all, going to see everyone on Visit Days, right?

::sniff::

With that taken care of, it was time to - well, to anything. The boys began with aerodynamics, 

 paused for a bit of whoop!

and went on to figure out how they could conquer the world.

And if you hadn't noticed, I suspect that I haven't been blogging nearly enough. Trust me - they did.


* Gigs, along with Trig and Gigabyte are a variety of names that we use for the really no longer toddling Toddles. For obvious, Palinesque reasons, I'm going to eschew the lovely Trig. Let's see if Gigs works for us - and your opinion is most welcome. The name is, of course, short for the Giggles.

morning improbable

go go go go shit stubbed -ow-fmfrikkintoe- um. Hi, honey.


The Toddles walked in slowly, meditatively. Also? pajamaedly.

Um, kid? It's morning. Time to get going for the day. I point at his pile of day clothes, sitting in the hallowed pile o' day clothes spot. He doesn't blink. Also? doesn't turn around.

Yes. I know. The kid flops down on the bed, his expression still serene, still relaxed. But I stopped the clock. 


I blink. He clarifies, time is standing still now.


Something in my morning routine knife pleats, then crumbles. Side by side, we stare at a line of light, threatening to creep across the ceiling. I could get to like this, I say, sleepily.


We pause, sinking into the stillness and inertia.

Mom! Mom! We have to go in seventeen minutes! the Eldest shrieks, running into the room. I turn my head to look at his brother, who doesn't have the grace to look sheepish.

I forgot to tell you, he says, calmly, I started it up again.

do all the things??

With thanks to Hyperbole and a Half, and if you are scratching your head right now, stop and go read this. No, really - I'll wait.

So, if I have a fault as a parent (what, me fault? cue the cackling children), it's my love of projects. Oh, I do love me some projects, possibly seventeen or so at a time. So we trip off happily to the yarn store, and find yarn to teach the child crochet. Or fabric, because we're going to teach the child sewing. And, in each case, we shall create marvels, and it shall be good.

Also? It will take so long to complete some of these marvels, whose marvellousness will expand and origami itself as the child gains competence and understanding of the technical skills needed for the project, that (deep inhale, cripes this sentence is running amok) the kid will lose interest. And I will end up pushing, because inevitably, that project was to be their grandmother's 60th birthday present, or a friend's birthday present two freakin' years ago or, or, or.

And then we both hate the project, snarl at it and each other, and stomp off. Until the next project shows up.

(sigh)

And then we'll do it all over again. Because for a brief, shining moment early in the whole project trajectory, the kid has an idea. The mama backs him up. There's a special trip to the store that sells the supplies, and we romp through it like selective magpies, falling in love with all of the shiny possibilities. We collect endless project idea cards and handouts, and gaze at them and a possible future of creative wonderfulness. And I take pictures like this one, which leave me damp of eye and proud.

That's my grandmother's sewing machine, schlepped to the country by my mother, and used (infamously) to make the Eldest's siddur cover.  And that earnest face? Well, it don't help us kick the habit, is all I'm saying. In fact, it's rather irresistible...

Note for the perceptive:
The buddy-taping in the photo is more or less for the reason you think - at the time, the kid had a bleed in the joint of his middle finger. It was a beeyoutiful shade of reddish purple, and worthy of admiration at the dinner table. Which is, of course, where I noticed it and inquired as to cause, duration and all of those finicky details. My hand? asked the child, surprised. And looked. Oh! Wow! the Eldest exclaimed, and seemed honestly surprised. That hurts!  Across the table from him, I nearly choked on my tea. And it really is purple!

Sometimes, the hard part about being a parent is the urge to howl with laughter - and not being able to do anything of the sort.

Note the second:
The kid is, of course, fine. And my diaphragm is still recovering.

listening to science - messy and otherwise

New York Hall of Science...meets parenting special needs. Either this blend of science and messy life-as-lived is characteristic of this institution, or I have much to learn about science.

On a rather unrelated note, I have continued the warping of my children. Today, the Eldest asked if we could listen to Radiolab, rather than just playing some music? Please? There was a longish pause, while the Toddles considered whether he was going to be offended. And wasn't.

Heh.

In fact, I lie: this is not an unrelated note - I hooked the kid on Radiolab with their story about a rescued lobster, waited a week, then gave him a bit of the Loneliness of the Goalkeeper show. That he stopped reading Fellowship of the Rings to listen? coincidence, he told me. And then got to hear him argue about how, just because I'd pulled up to the curb and turned off the car, doesn't mean - surely! that we had to stop listening to the Yellow Fluff/Scientific Discovery (or, how I came to love the fly that is eating my brain) show.

Radiolab, if we end up blasting Richard Holmes' Galois story while walking home, I won't blame you - I'll be laughing too hard.

probabilities and surprise

Watch out, Mum - you want to stand back - there's a 50/50 chance that I'm going to throw up.
[pause]
Uh, oh - it just got worse. 45% that I won't throw up.


[meanwhile, in another room]

Oh, wow! look at that!


Yep, says the parent. That's one purple knuckle you've got there. 


Kid, enraptured, oh - and I don't want to straighten it! See? (rotates hand back and forth, eyes wide with fascination) and it doesn't bend, either. It's - it's - the Eldest, struck by a new thought, looks up, it hurts!

*****************************
Tonight's score on the kid-o-meter: 50% chance of child self-awareness before incident. .0007% chance, going forwards. Degrees of accuracy? assuming a confidence interval of oh, not so very much, and correcting for variability in the data, um, it depends.

step away from the virus. Yes. Just like that.

except that there's this rubber band thing, that snaps you right back in there. Twang! (that's gotta hurt)

Day three of the sickies, and the Man is now quietly and wisely replenishing my chocolate supply. Bless him. And I'm actually going through my email, in hopes that there really is life on the other end of my steadily elongating tunnel. (have spoon, will tunnel to freedom. or at least, fresh air.)

We've now watched all of the Pixar shorts that I could find - Geri's Game? love it! - played round after round of Uno, added pockets to the Toddles' Purim costume, napped and turned our sad, sandy front garden into a geometry project.

If each square on the graph paper = 4 inches, and we build a 10x40 raised bed here, a 36x40 raised bed there, and a 10x36 raised bed there, can the gigantic recycling toters that will SAVE OUR WORLD be able to get through to the sidewalk? 


answer: um. eep.

We cut out a paper toter, generously sized, and maneuvered it through the garden. Worked out missing bits, like oh - the existing garden beds? the left side of the garden? (ahem) and made a list of measurements that someone should go and get.

What about triangular garden beds? asked the Eldest, who had designed some in class. I looked at him. Could work, I said. Can you work out the area for me? Let's see which gives us more planting space. The Eldest nodded - thought better of it - and beat a hasty retreat. I'm - um - going to go play Uno with the Toddles, he informed me, virtuously. And vanished.

Leaving me with bits of paper, and a vision of a world outside. Or what it could be, if I only had the time - and a whisper of spring.

it's okay to be different when...

A few weeks ago, I showed Beauty and the Beast to the boys. We're too lazy to have a TV - or rather, to police one, sneer at it, and usefully deconstruct it for the kidlets. (literally and otherwise) But once in a great while, we creep out of our lazy Luddite cave to try something like this. As predicted, the Toddles bolted for the futon, hid behind his father - and eventually tugged the Man up and away from the overwhelmingness. 


Could we have a story, instead?


But the Eldest was enthralled. Wanted to talk about why the Beast was drawn that way, so that he's scarier looking there and why Gaston eats all of those eggs - is he serious? and just - stare. And stare, frowning slightly - then hugely relieved - then curled into me, waiting. Oh! he said, watching Gaston fall into the castle depths. I wasn't expecting that. And grinned.

The next morning, when the Toddles crept out of hiding, the Eldest was still locked onto the movie. And, apparently, so was his brother. Forget the Beatles, forget the Black Eyed Peas - and even They Might Be Giants. No Little Richard or Benny Goodman - we've even sworn off Trout Fishing in America for now (not for long, kids - please? not for long?), while the Beauty and the Beast album is on endless loop. Play the Beauty and the Beast music! the back seat insists. Go get the mob song - it's missing from the iPod! 


And, don't sing along, Mum - you are getting between me and the words. 
Right. Sorry, kid. (hrrumph)


Eventually, the cross-eyed stares melted into something else.  By the nth repetition of the mob song, the shorter one was looking thoughtful.

Why are they afraid of things they don't understand? the Toddles asked, and ruthlessly, waited for my reply.  I tried to explain about how things in the dark are scarier than in the daytime, things you don't know can be scarier than things you do know - or can figure out - and he weighed my reply carefully. That makes sense, he conceded.

Actually, I'm afraid of Gaston, he confided. The Beast has scary drawing, but Gaston really *is* scary. 


I nodded. Deep, soul-certain self-centeredness is absolutely scary. I told the kid so, and he looked sad. Yes, he said. That's why we learn about derech eretz, right?

The next day, the Eldest passed by the mob song, choosing instead Belle's theme song. He listened to it once, twice, brushing off my rather paltry 'different but special' routine. No, Mum, he said, suddenly. Listen to it. They [the townspeople] call her odd, and strange, and say that she doesn't fit in. But it's not until Gaston says that he wants to marry her that they say that she's different but special. And that's only because they like Gaston, see?


I did see. Difference is only special if someone is willing to value it - or you.

We don't like what we don't understand, eh? I suggested. In the back seat, a kid nodded. So, perspective matters? or understanding?

Both, he told me. Firmly. He had reason to know.

dark spaces and quilter's flannel

So, I have this Google Reader thing, and it's about as effective as my inbox: you have 334 posts to read, it intones. Plus lots of Baby Blues cartoons. But nobody's listening, see, because I might have posts to read, but I don't have time - I'm too busy glaring at the 1352 emails in my inbox. (Although I make an exception for BB, because, you know.)

But I do miss my favorite blogs, like this (on bedrest) blog, the Toddles' and my new favorite this one (and had I known that she was a mere brisk walk away, well!), the blogger who SHOULD get a satellite for A's birthday (IMHO) and oh, oh, oh these ones that feed the heart and tum- the please don't be defunct this one, and that one - the one I just found, the two that break my heart, the queen of the allergy lunchbox, the lady who produced the maker of an absolutely superb box, the ones walking in our shoes, and oh, more, many of which are languishing on LiveJournal. I'd go on, for fear of missing any particularly beloved blog, but you'll notice by now that this is really an apologia to the inhabitants of my Reader list, and I'm starting to feel like a variant on Dickens: guilt paid for by the word.

Enough. The point is, I let my Reader moulder, collect curiously shaped dust bunnies, which then debate the benefits of libertarian politics. Meanwhile, I wrestle with my inbox, let the Man lecture me on the proper way to write emails (efficiently, apparently), and mutter. But tonight, the kids finally asleep after an overdose on Disney, the Man and I were talking about a dear, if neglected friend. Which lead me to this post.

Okay, so first of all, cripes. I had that virus, and I'm assuming that the rest of the Imperfects were at least introduced to it, given the horking up of stuff that I've done over the past three weeks. I'm so sorry to hear that R had it - G? ST? YS? and all of the other alphabeticals. And you know, that thing gets points for combining the timing with the nasties. Because pilgrimages suck.

Oh, sometimes they really, really don't. But they do. And yes, I've been holding out on you, because our last visit managed to do both.

I can't begin to explain what dairy means to the Eldest, or to us as a family. Aside, as the Man points out, from a $30 rise in our weekly food costs. (Can't explain it, but can quantify it? Bah.) The Eldest's kaput!ted dairy allergy means something for what we put in our mouths, yes, but an easing of a fraction or two in my now-famous, unknottable shoulder muscles. (Forget Rafael Nadal - you should string a racket with those suckers) The two work together, in a wonderful positive feedback cycle of the kid can -> look! this used not to be okay, but now it is -> less worry, more breathe -> I don't gotta persuade nobody of nothin' here -> ahhh, the kid can.

Now, try the other version.

No, don't. It sucks great green goblins. And the thing about a pilgrimage is that you don't always know which one you get. Even if you had a great year, a bad year, maybe you read the signs wrong? maybe the labs will show, oh, something else? The Eldest's heme pharmacokinetics this year showed that no, he isn't working as well with his clotting meds as he has in the past, and we went to the annual heme visit (at, yes, a still-funded HTC) waiting to discuss The Rise of the Inhibitor, or the Great Statistical Insignificance.

(Don't ask me which one it was, I still don't know. The medicos don't, either, but they made up for it by noticing something completely different to horrify and entertain us all, as I'll tell you some other time.)

This year, we got both. The Great Dairy Escape, and the great green gobs of screeching heebie jeebies. Or possibly, screeching me(s). Hi, is this Miz Imperfect? I'm calling with the Toddles' lab results - do you have a minute? I did. I was also in the office of a really lovely director of admissions for a local lovely school. And suddenly, awash in numbers. So, according to this, the Toddles' RAST tests are double - or more than double - the ones from 2009. She walked me through the relevant results, and I plopped into a conveniently placed chair. Oh. The phone was sympathetically silent. Yes. It's fairly concerning, and we were wondering if there's anything that's changed? a new product that you might have questions about, a new food?  ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod

deep breath. Come on, woman - say it - well, the only real change that I can think of is that for the past few months, the Toddles has been eating lunch with his friends. He stays for lunch. At preschool.


And Miriam was right. At moments like that, I know that the dark spaces have been there all along, discreet little hatches, bulkheads that open and yawn which is unfair because, simultaneously the room is getting smaller and the damned bulkheads are eating all of the space - but that's a major milestone for him. And I don't want to take it away, unless we absolutely must.


Silence roars from the other end of the phone. Then, no. I agree. Let's not touch that until we have to. For now, why don't you look at the foods he's eating, see if you can identify any risks that might be of concern, and let's talk about them?


I nod, idiotic with relief. Oh. Um, yes. I'll do that. Flip the phone closed (did I say goodbye?) and blink, looking up at my now-worried audience. Who doesn't quite sigh, doesn't quite wince, but lets me scrabble myself together and think.

Because, truly? for us, the dark spaces aren't really quite medical. They're the places where our ability to live a life - a valued, rich and happy-in-our-way life - drops away. I'll tell you some other time about reassessing whether the Toddles can eat lunch at school, with his class, and the new mold allergy and angst-r-us. But at the end of the post, I am glad that there's this post.

So, let me sidestep the angst and my psyche's bulkheads to say, hey, ladies! I'm writing this post while curled up under a quilt. Don't know if you made it, but someone did, and gave it to HitWGC, and they sent us home with it. Now, it's the quilt that I put over the Eldest last weekend, when he had a bleed in his ankle. And that the Toddles snuggles under, for a sleepy waking-up ritual, and that I curl up with for my daily cuppa.

Dark spaces and bits of soft, flannel comfort. Yeah, it can work. Especially if that director of admissions is a very, very level-headed and sensible person.

(looks up. essays smile. tries again. sighhhhhhh)

visuals count!

She lives somewhere around here, and I want to find her. Sara Hendren, a local artist and mother of two, has been quietly upgrading handicapped stickers. And now, thanks to the Boston Globe, not so quietly. The current symbol for handicapped access bears no resemblance to my college professor, pulling on his leather gloves before rolling down the ramp. The guy moved. The current image, though, is appallingly passive.

So, woot! for Sara Hendren and her sticker campaign. Want to help her? You can get stickers here, while they last. Just include your mailing address, and she'll send 5 to you, free! For the Imperfects, she's offering us the perfect follow-up to a conversation that the Eldest was roped into, oh, last winter.


MOOOOOM, we're late! Why are you driving past those spots - we're ALways LATE and you never get a spot and those are empty and WHY?  Things degenerated a little at that point, and there was a certain amount of shrieking. I'm not too proud to admit that some of the shrieking was mine. But, mid-screech, I did note the opening I'd been given.


Later that night, I slid into the Eldest's room. What does 'handicapped' mean?


The kid glared. He did a lot of glaring that winter, so it just washed over me. I smiled, angelically, having discovered that this defused the glare - or possibly distilled it to a cranky but functional eye-roll.
It means you can't park there. He paused, mid-roll, and added, and that people can't walk.

If I told you that I leaned back, casually, at this point, you should assume that I was not grinning. But I might've looked like a happy geeking mama, who has spotted the metaphorical podium.

Insert the usual spiel about cap-in-hand, disabled people begging, etc. It's dead wrong, as I later discovered, but hey, made a great entry point into the discussion. The kid looked thoughtful. Frowned.

Okay, so what's a better way to say 'handicapped?'


The Eldest played along, only rolling his eyes the barest minimum of times needed to indicate his extreme level of patience.

can't walk 

got hurt 

born that way

can't catch it 

has a challenge 

can't do some things? 

can't do some things easily 

has medical stuff

disabled 

We stared at the last word. Disabled, I said, grimly, and remembered the last time I'd used that word, and the stiff, defensive faces of the people who didn't - quite - hear it.  Yeah, said the Eldest. So what? Well, you and I and the IEP know that the Eldest should know exactly what. But lucky kid, he doesn't. So, I diagrammed it for him.

DIS = CAN'T
ABLE = DO THINGS, INDEPENDENT
CAN'T + DO = HANDICAPPED

Remember "medical?"
The Eldest blinked. Yeah.
Dude, some people think that's YOU.
The Eldest bristled. What? That's absurd!  I just have to take care of things, and be prepared - and yeah, i can't head the ball in soccer, but I can play - and you know, I make a great goalie and -  the kid's eyerolling vanished in a flare of indignation, and bam! game on, mama.

Hey, I'm not arguing. I waved my hands as evidence of good will, good-guy status, and general on-your-sideness. That list has an awful lot of 'no,' or 'can't' hiding in it. So, what is a better way of saying this?


Right. The kid squared his shoulders, and went so far as to lean forward.

Details 
has to be prepared 
limits (but I can still play! the Eldest protested. Hm, I said. True.)
complicated 
might take longer 
go a different way
different
uses tools (doesn't everybody? the Eldest asked, and I grinned)
has fine print on the contract

Are we done? we thought it over. Almost: 


quirky

The Eldest nodded. That one is right. It has less - can't - in it. It has fun.
I gave up, and grinned. Kid, it has YOU in it.

okay, we got scooped

Well, sort of.

For those of you who read the New Yorker, there's an article in this week's magazine by the thoughtful and wise Jerome Groopman. "The Peanut Puzzle" is a calmly written alternative to the shrieking headlines offering fear, or skepticism. And wry apology.

In case anyone is wondering, the baked milk study mentioned in the article is yes, the one that the Eldest just finished. Oh - did I mention  that he finished it? He did. Two tries at the 6 month version of the protocol, a possible false positive at a food challenge (turns out the ewwww, of a coated throat from full-fat dairy? not easily distinguished from an ewwww of the stomach urp, plus general ickies for a kid expecting anaphylaxis to start. Any time now. Now? Now? Maybe now?).

Then done. Then not done - hahahaha - because you have to avoid all dairy for a month, just in case the allergy comes back.

What happens if it comes back? asked the Eldest. A borough away, the mama nodded. The kid's skin tests were still positive, dammit. So, what happens?

then you'll be the first, said the allergist, and the Man says that she offered a wry smile. And you know what? For once, the kid was not unique. But he also couldn't believe it. Still, he was cool. He knew the score - go, test, schlep home, eat more stuff.

bah, said the Eldest. Done this before.

And oh, he was cool. He was sly, working his moment, enjoying Diego's fries (made in a special fry-pan! special oil! and how on earth does he make them so good? The nurse shrugged. The kid ate his sixty-first, and grinned.)

Ooo, said the Eldest. A foooooooood chALLenge. Oh, that's scary.

He tossed back a slug of chocolate milk, then another, another, and oh - a bunch more. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, he informed us. And mugged, to prove it.

That's it, said the same, wry, lovely allergist. You are done! Thank you for helping us learn about what we can do to help other children like you, with their allergies.

The kid swept a grand bow. The allergist cocked an eyebrow, appreciated the gesture, and left.

You're done,  I told him. He paused.


No - really?

I nodded. He shrugged. I put a hand on his shoulder. No, really. Go ask her.

The Eldest caught up with Dr. Wry-and-Gracious by the elevators. I watched as he talked to her. She looked puzzled, but replied. He looked at her, searching her face. And then, turned and walked away.

He doesn't really believe that it's over, I explained. Watch. It's about to hit him. 

Two-thirds of the way down the hall, the kid stopped. Tilted his head, then froze. Now, I told her.  And we watched the kid gallop down the hall, laughing. 

a pattern's tale

So, I might have mentioned that I have this kid, and he's oh, himself. Except when he's in training to be the class clown, and then he's a caricature of That Kid. But mostly, he's himself. See?

Hm. Maybe if you got closer. Try this:

Better? Okay, then. Let's take it from the top: I have this kid. And he is...himself.

Hm. Still not right. How about if we back up narratively?

Every year, 'round about the winter holidays, I frog-march the boys over to the idea of their teachers. And saying 'thank-you.' Happily, the kids have needed little explanation as to why the first should go with the second, although the degree and quality of the thanks has needed some guidance. And, the 'say a really nice thank-you, because your teacher works her educator's tush off extra hard for you' is not a line that I can use. It may be true, but that's not a weight the kid can carry.  Which, as I say to the teachers each year, is why I intend to smile very very quietly, when my kids complain to me about their children. And carefully not say anything at all.

But back to the photos. Right, so there's this kid. Or possibly, kids. And each year, they say thanks. In our house, we do it with our time and hands, and sometimes, with our oven. Last year, the boys made sparklies, and a dry mix for By the Bay's fabulous cholent. Another year, they made a still-talked about ooh, yum granola bar, which the Toddles delivered in what was an act of ruthless appreciation (on my part, perhaps, more than on his). This year? This year, we went for fuzzy.

After watching me curl up with a creation of soft yumminess by the Space Cadet, the boys began to show glimmers of interest in the bags that I (occasionally - only very occasionally! honest!) bring into the house. I let them choose the yarn for their next kipa, and then, I brought them to the yarn store. For the Toddles, it was heaven: he could touch anything (gently). He could take anything off the shelf (one at a time). And everyone in the store wanted to hear what he thought. (no, really. everyone.)  The Eldest came to the store with more skepticism, and was seduced by the yarn - and oh, Mummy the colors! and why is this one softer than the other one? and why does the yarn change colors like that - how do they make it change - and why is this one twirled around itself? and then it's thicker here, and stringy like that - there?

Oh, said the Eldest. Yes, I would like to pick out a skein. For me? For a kipa? We spent over an hour at the yarn store, that day, and he finally chose a dark navy, generously flecked with orange, red, green and yellow. It made a lovely, stretchy kipa, with a curving trim of red sari silk yarn, and both of us were surprisingly accepting when his father accidentally felted it in the dryer. After all, we knew where it came from.

So, the fuzzies. And so, the boys.  I'll do a row if you do a row, I promised them, and the Toddles leaped right in. He chose a ball of yarn, and happily finger-stitched a row of chain stitches. Chose a second ball, did five finger-stitches, wandered off, and refused to be lured back. Ever.

The Eldest watched this burst of enthusiasm with a degree of fairly accurate skepticism. I dangled the offer. Any yarn you like, love. And watched him think it over. Remember. Crumble. And grin.

He started with a chain stitch, done with his fingers. It was loose, then too tight, and I hovered - then got smart, and shut up. You don't have to stitch in each spot unless you want to, a wise friend reminded me. And I didn't. Without my dangling over him, the kid looped, pulled, and let the yarn teach him how it worked. His stitches grew tighter - too tight - and he asked for a crochet hook. Then a smaller one. Then, a different stitch.

And so it went. His row, my row, his row, my row. We told stories of the teachers, as he looped yarn into their gift. She's really funny, but sometimes? sometimes she puts her head like this, and then you know that she's thinking about whether she's mad. He paused. I grinned. What do you do then? I asked. The kid wound some more yarn around his hand, and looked up. I keep going, he said. Which is probably how I get into trouble.


I nodded.

A skein for each teacher - and sometimes, a skein and a stripe. It took hours. And hours. A lot of it was rich with a quiet mellowness, and with stories.  Some of it wasn't, like the day when I sent him - spitting mad - to his room. He went, still hissing, then came down the hall to mine. Curled up on the bed, and watched me crochet. May I? Just a few stitches? I passed the yarn over, and let the rhythms of his stitches sink into his bones. It makes quiet in my head, he told me. And smiled. Thanks, Mummy. 

And then there were the days of the bitching and moaning. NOW??? But I'm in the middle of - but I'm about to - but I really want to -  and, of course, I can't do twenty stitches! It takes FORE-EV-AH!  And then, inevitably, there was this:

I'm done? Oh my gosh that was the last stitch - right, Mum? - thatwasitthatwasitthatwasitIDIDIT!

And he began to dance. The next day, I took photos, wrapped and wrote out washing instructions, while the kid made cards:   thank you for being my teacher.

The tough-as-nails teacher looked up from her card - at me. Thanks, Mom! she said. I laughed. Oh, no,  I said. I didn't do it. He did.  And I pointed. She looked. Really? you did this? she asked, and the Eldest nodded, earnestly. You knitted me - this?  He shook his head. No, he explained, I crocheted it.  And he began to point, to show her stitches - and she began to understand. Really? another teacher said, carefully quiet. She pulled photos from her envelope, and saw the Eldest, wielding his hook - she looked up, over the edge of the photos, and saw the Eldest, explaining his stitches to his still-fearsome teacher. Oh, she said. And laughed. Oh, oh, oh.

The tough-as-nails teacher melted into a puddle, and the others laughed from sheer pleasure. My scarf is prettier than yours, you know, said one, later that day. And I can't prove it, but I'm positive that she grinned. The other one probably tossed her head. No way, she retorted. Mine is. And wore it again the next day, just to prove the point.

As for me? Well, you know how I love those visual metaphors. The first, raggedly steps, the rebellions, the learning and the carelessness. The enthusiasm of the too-tight stitches, and the fat reliable stitches of the learned skill. But hey, the learning curve in yarn is pretty damned nice - and fuzzy - but it was beaten all hollow by the things I didn't catch on film. Like his teachers' faces, when they saw in their gifts the hours of patient work. Like the kid's face, when he was hugged, melted upon and given the gift of giving something that was joyfully received.

ahem

[standing at the sink, toothbrush in hand]

Eldest: ...and then, there was the time that I almost broke my ankle.
Mama: [mid-scrub, the Toddles trying to wiggle away from the shampooing hands] mm, hm. [blinks] wha- ankle?
Eldest: [nods] yes. I was climbing on the car - not our car, J's car.
[in the tub, the Toddles sits still, listening. A slow grin creeps onto his face.]
Mama: you - you were? [clears throat] That's really not a good idea. You can damage the car that way.
Eldest: Yes, I know. And I caught my ankle in an open window.... [tilts head, looks thoughtful] This was back in first grade, you know. And kids that young don't always make the best decisions.

[pause]

Eldest: Why are you laughing? What's so funny? 

a marathon in an alcove

The photo that I would have - should have - taken today, was of the view that I had at roughly 2.15pm: two arms, stretched on their respective chair arms, each equipped with an IV. One was solidly wrapped in gauze, a rather stolid affair, complemented by the large rectangle of the board used to keep the elbow straight. The other was rather laissez-faire even with the board, with a hint of gauze near the IV, sliding under the skin with little more than a blush, or possibly a Tegaderm to cover it. Blocky and relaxed, the arms' owners stretched out in their chair, admiring Luke, as he battled his father.

There's good in you yet, said the hero, and we admired his idealism, while hoping he'll be really, truly fast on the defense. (And he was.)

We do an annual, day-long test at the hospital, studying the way that the Eldest's body responds to his clotting medications. For a variety of reasons, the Eldest's is not a typical drug, meet person, person, meet drug relationship. He tends to bash his clotting protein up a bit, argue a bit, and then settle down into a functional relationship. The pattern has held stable for the past five years, and with any luck, will continue - and be predictive only of his approach to molecular structures of limited size.

Judging from the second arm in that alcove, and the day's Star Wars marathon, it is. Stretching out my own legs, smiling at the other arm's mother, we mamas settled into our own alcove. A couple of feet away, a voice commented on how badly Palpatine had aged, while another muttered agreement. And a good thing rippled outwards from the shared IVs, into a better thing.

It's good to have a mellow day, relaxing in a freshly redesigned alcove and cosy armchair. It's better yet to share that day with a friend. And best yet, with a blood brother.*

And that is the photo that I wish I had taken. Dang, blast and blergh. Instead, the photo that I was able to take today was this one:

Many thanks to the chef(s) of the Children's cafeteria, who rescued an embarrassed mama who'd somehow provided two lunches to one child. The other, lunchless child, feasted happily on a fresh batch of french fries, made in a a closed kitchen with specially prepared, Imperfectly allergy-friendly deep fryer. I'd like to think that my ample supply of orange juice, cherries and crisp apples helped make today a gustatory pleasure, but let's be honest: fries? with appalling globs of ketchup? rock.

And so does Bill, who made them.
*men and boys with bleeding disorders call each other "blood brothers." For any number of reasons,whether the loneliness of the rare condition, or the ragged remains of the post-HIV/AIDS bleeding disorder community, the term is a particularly poignant one. Of course, the guys also call each other "bruisers," which goes to show that poignancy can only be sustained for so long, before - no. Better not to go there.

a wince, a wheeze

Oh, BlogPress, won't you let my postlets go? You've gone and eaten a picture-rich Chanuka post, written expressly for the absent grandparents, and hello? Greedy guts? Chanuka's over.

(grump, grump, grump, grump)

Oh, but who can stay grumpy when the kid's turning red and shuddering with laughter at my elbow? It is apparently beyond hilarious that, after being corralled by his domineering mother, he forgot - and crocheted ten stitches in the wrong direction. Think of a dash, written on top of a long pair of parallel lines, and then add momentum. Reaching for the next set of loops, the kid had to wrangle himself into a pause long enough to figure out what had happened. Laugh with me, he's inviting. I'm absurd, I'm contagiously ridiculous.

And now he's toppled over. And is writhing with silent, percussive laughter on the floor. I do believe that I'm being invited to pause, and admire his commitment to the role. Yes? Ah. Yes.

I'm happy to beam at him, as much for his own pleasure in his humor, as for the kid as a whole. Oh, but it's been a good few months for the boy. A year and more of things starting to fall into place...lessee. Need a narrative starting point, um - ah.

About 18-20 months ago, our car was periodically noisy. The Eldest would get in, pause, explode. Cause? bah, said the explosion. Causes are for lesser minds in search of a trigger for moments of emotional emphasis. 

Right, said the mama. And learned that one cannot duck effectively while wearing a seatbelt. Nor while keeping an eye on the road.

When the explosion was on coffee break, the car would be offered the dulcet tones of the whinge. My seatbelt's too tight, we'd be informed. Or, failing that, my shirt is too tight on me - why do you buy such things? Fists would fly in the back seat, the whinge would climb towards a shriek, and the mama towards a roar. Oh, it was a grand, grand time. And in the classroom, it was no better.

Let's talk about behavior, the teachers would say. He's definitely a class clown, but the trouble is that he doesn't - stop. I ended one parent-teacher conference with my head in my hands, and a teacher reassuring me, but we still love him! and thinking, sure. For now. And on the day when I was requested to take the kid home, after an out-of-control episode, I sat in the car, staring at the Eldest.


What happened?
The kid looked at me, his eyes clear and troubled. I don't know.
I looked back, searching, and found only that I believed the kid -  and realizing that, wavered on the edge of tears. And so did he.

When we leveled the asthma question at the doctors, at the kid, it was a wavering, wobbly one. The kid's lung capacity was 100% of the expected capacity for a child his age and size. But there it was, the tight chest, the rapid, gasping breath, the sudden snaps of irritability and nervous energy. Anxiety can make things worse, said our pediatrician, thoughtfully, and we all nodded. So can patterns, habits of emotional response, I mused. And internally, quailed. Anxiety is an old friend, and a squishy, oozing one. Hard to get a grip on the dude, but he's always lurking and at least familiar. But not, in our lad, pathological. Diagnoses carry their own burden, but they can also set you free - giving tools specific to that diagnosis, tested Things To Try, and that crucial short list of Things That Just Suck. I considered oozy, slippery ordinary kid stuff, and weighed it against the crush and weight of the diagnosis. And rather preferred the medical to the mundane. Did we get to choose?

Maybe. Maybe not.

What if it is anxiety? What if it isn't? The allergist and pediatrician urged us to try a month-long course of preventative asthma medicine. A couple of puffs of the inhaler in the morning, a pair at night. Tracking his lung capacity each time, looking to see if the big dips in capacity drop as the month goes one - and as the kid relaxes. We hesitated for a long pair of months. Steroids, even in low doses - daily? And yet, prophylactic medicine is something he knows, something that he's seen us trust to control bleeding. Can he let himself trust prophylaxis to control breathing, as well?

He could. And hugged his lung capacity measurements, the p'flometer, he called it, using them to reassure himself that all might just, possibly be well. A few weeks later, those lung capacity numbers trailed into relative unreliability. pphhhht, blew the kid, and rolled his eyes. And PUHPHHHHHHHHHTTTT! blew the kid. Thanks for the data points, the Man sighed, and tossed a third of them. But nobody could argue with the jump. His lung capacity increased by 42.2% (saith the Man), and we all stared. He's making his own rules again,  I muttered.

And grinned.

The teachers smiled back, politely puzzled. He's the class clown, they told me, and waited to see if I winced. I did, dropping my head onto one hand. But he can stop when he needs to, they told me. And his sense of humor is really quite good. Inexplicably, I began to choke. Swallowed. Resisted the urge to wheeze. There are class clowns who aren't funny? A twinkle from the teacher on the end of the table, and, oh, she said gently. Oh, yes.


And winced.

quiet in the head

I'm entangled with yarn today, and the warm - almost ruthlessly warm - sunshine is falling just so, through the windows and onto me, the yarn, and the bowl of browned butter-and-edamame garlic pasta. Or, rather, what's left of the pasta - the boys, who loudly bowled out the door not five minutes ago, ate most of it.

(heh)

Wait - what? Oh. Yes, I left you in the middle of a story. A hike was about to happen, I know, I know. And oh, yes. Sorry - when I left you, the Eldest wasn't eating things like butter. There was this dairy allergy (and a few others). Um. Well, look: here's the deal.

Blogs die when people stop writing them. They stutter, look sad, pop up with the odd, apologetic, oh I'm so sorry I miss my blog post, stutter - and stop. Mine stopped, waiting for me to finish the next part of the story. And life burbled around me, asking me to write about it - and always, to write about it now.

But I'm about to go hiking! I told life.

Life snorted, and tried not to roll its eyes. But now, said life, you are making crystallized ginger. See? Isn't it wonderful and yummy? Doesn't the warmth of it unfold on your tongue? And now, the Toddles is being alarming and splendid and razing your ideas of parenthood all over again, showing you why he was obsessively playing with those number flashcards. Oh, and did he just explain negative numbers to you? Now is full. Write now.

And do it - well, you know.

Oh, I said to life. I will. Just as soon as I finish this other thing...and you know the end of that story.

So, yes. I will take you hiking with us, up the volcano - and into it. I will show you a net and a boy and a biologist, and I'll explain about the dairy that came back and the boy who silently built webs of numbers. But today, there is yarn.

It's one of my favorite yarns, the Mochi Plus Yarn, in the Neptune Rainbow - a swirl of green-to-blue-to-purple, soft and silky. I used it once, to make a kipa for the Toddles. He loved it, and it lasted only long enough for me to learn not to wash wool in hot water. (ouch.)

But today's work isn't a kipa, and it isn't really mine. With the crisp Thanksgiving weather outside, Chanuka is coming. And that means, the boys and I working to make some gift for their teachers. We talked a bit, explored a bit, and then I made them a deal: for every row that you do, I'll do one as well.

Okay, they said. And dove into my stash, choosing a yarn for each teacher. The Toddles chain-stitched a row, tossed it to me, grabbed a second ball of yarn - and made all of eight stitches before disappearing to soothe himself with some Lego. The Eldest, however, glared. He moaned. He bitched. And then, he was quiet.

He smiled. Forwent a grin. Finished a row, and reached for a second ball of yarn. The next day, he would be sent upstairs after shrieking at his brother for oh, goodness knows what. He'd find me, hiding in my room, working on my part of the bargain. He'll curl up in my bed, pick up a random ball of yarn, and chain-stitch for a while.

It makes quiet in my head, he'll tell me. And I'll understand perfectly.

It does, indeed.

planting a foot on it (a Wish - part 5)

We began at the various visitor buildings, where the Eldest was ceremoniously given a small bag of informative gifts. And the loan of Ranger Rob, a twinkling gentleman with an excellent understanding of that which is small and male.

Hi, said the boys, and gazed adoringly at Rob, his uniform, his walkie-talkie and his generally obvious belonging-hereness. Hi, said Rob. And twinkled.

I explained the Eldest's Wish to climb a volcano, and Ranger Rob and I considered the challenge. To arrive at the Volcanoes National Park, we had driven, well, up. A whole lot of up, more than you'd have thought, given the effectiveness of the doowwwwwwn. Erm. You are already at the summit, another ranger pointed out. (Sans twinkle.) But Rob was unconcerned. I'll take you to what I consider the real summit, he declared. Are you ready? By now, I was pretty sure that I knew the answer.

Yes.

And off we went, up a dusty trail to the (ahem) summit of Kilauea - a summit not appreciated by the tourists, who hang around the nicely paved semicircle with the pay-per-view lookout glasses. The US Geological Survey likes it just fine, and even stuck a literal pin in the map on that very spot, noting the volcano's highest point. They also built a tidy concrete housing over their pin, and we plopped ourselves on top, the better to consider the view.

It is a view that takes some considering.


Kilauea is an uneven sort of place, with steam rising in a great gush from the caldera, and then in little dribbles scattered through the landscape. Clouds hung low, promising damp, then drizzle, before blowing away to let in a blazing sunshine. Greenery would explode upwards, before stopping abruptly on the edge of lava. Even the bare rock left the sense of someone opposed to housekeeping - a handy geologist (drawn in by the twinkle, no doubt) pointed out the caldera's bathtub ring, a ridge showing the lava lake's level, before the most recent eruption. And who would dare scrub at that?

Untidy - and uncertain. Rob's walkie-talkie crackled often, chattering about emerging or possible alarms, and next door, a lab bristled with measurements and instruments eyeing the volcano's every twitch and wriggle. A place to be, but not to settle in, I thought - but possibly that had somewhat to do with the rock digging into my bum. Or possibly with that threatening gush of steam.



It was odd beyond odd to watch a jogger go by, pony tail bouncing.

The geologist, Kelly, offered to take the Eldest to the Jagger volcano lab and observatory, where she showed us boxes of ash and lava samples. The geologists examine the samples for mineral content, among other things. Different minerals are present at different depths, and a new mineral can mean that lava - or ash - is coming from a different chamber, below the surface. They track an amazing amount of information here, Rob told me, quietly. The computers help assemble the information, and can even help us try to figure out what is happening, during a crisis. And yet, looking around at the piled-up boxes of samples and reams of data, I had the feeling that a crucial degree of volcanology was instinct; a half conscious assessment of information, experience and a coalescing judgement, trailing explanations in its wake.

Reliable science would be nice, but hey, instinct works for me, too.


These are Pele's hair - and tears - said Kelly, and the boys listened with their mouths open as she talked about the way that volcanic glass is spun as thin as a human hair. She held up a bag of what truly looked like hair, and picked out a tear. I found this in the parking lot, a few days ago, she said. (I considered moving the car) Oooo, said the boys, but the Eldest hunched his shoulders, worried by the idea of that much volcanic activity.

Is it safe?

Kelly smiled at him. We watch the volcano, she told them, and study everything we can. The Eldest's shoulders relaxed slightly, finding this comforting. And then forgot everything but awe when Kelly explained how they took the lava samples. Ash daily and lava weekly, she told them, and grinned when I asked why her shoes don't melt. Later, she pointed out some Army green flight helmets and bits of gear. For when we go to get the lava, she said, calmly. Rob nodded gravely, and I caught the whisper's edge of a twinkle in Kelly's eye.

Oh, I said, lamely. Oh, boy.

Kelly flickered another micro-twinkle at me, and led us out to a little gallery of stuff thought cool by the geologists. We gaped at these for a while, remembering the difference between stalagmites and stalactites. Geologists really do get to collect the very bestest rocks. But Rob wandered over to what ought to be the Man's favorite map ever; a geological map, showing the dates and topographical details of the various lava flows. Here is where people were evacuated in such a such a year, Rob pointed, and there is where the lava did this, crossed that town, that road. You could see why Rob was still a Ranger - he looked at that map and saw events, people and needs, where numbers and notations about who knows what were written.

People? rocks? I don't think you can really separate the two around here. But you can pick a focus as a lens for reading a given moment.

We walked past a bunch of bemused geologists (children? in the lab?) and wound up some stairs. Thanks for letting us break chunks off the olivine, said a poster, signed, Ms X's class. I grinned, and kept climbing. We emerged into a glass-walled Situation Room on top of the Jagger lab, complete with webcams and fantastic views. And maps of Kilauea, Mauna Loa, Mauna Kea and goodness knows what else, from umpteen angles, dates and with an infinite number of teeny notations.

There is Mauna Kea, Rob waved. I peered at the omnipresent clouds. An eruption would show browns, and a glow. We'd see it, or an eruption around here, or there... He trailed off. And then, we'd respond, he said, simply.

Looking at the massive landscape, I didn't ask how, but suspected that the answer would depend on your lens.



We headed for the car, an annotated map in hand, slipping from specialness into anonymity. Waving goodbye to Rob and the tourist-aesthetic spaces, we looked for somewhere to get dirty.

It was time for a hike.

note to the abandoned (a Wish and a sidestep)

Okay, so it's slightly evil to do this while building narrative momentum - I did, after all, just say the words "Eldest" and Wish" in the same sentence - but the Eldest's Wish needs to wait while I settle something.

There are two misconceptions that you might have at this moment:

1. that the Eldest is terminally ill

2. that this is the most extraordinary gift that we could possibly be given, and that bubbling clouds of delight are whisking us far, far up beyond the mundane.

Well, 1. most certainly, he is NOT - and we're grateful for that. The Make-A-Wish foundation grants Wishes to children who are terminally ill, as well as to children with certain life-threatening conditions. The Eldest was such a child some years ago, but he is nothing of the sort now. And 2., well, look at the superlatives. Consider the tone that goes with them. Nod slowly as you realize that, in fact, this Wish makes me deeply uncomfortable.

There is something both humbling and deeply invasive about having a child with a chronic illness, and watching healthcare professionals gather, ready to offer you their time and help. The family home shifts towards being a place of socially constructed pretenses of privacy, whose social patterns are known all too well to those who support it. So, fine. There are other people involved. It was the loss of independence was harder to adjust to, and the ongoing sense of social obligation.

It's not like I can go to an infusion nurse's home and pop an IV into her kid, or cook her dinner. (Although I did try to feed them at every opportunity, and they were very tolerant of my efforts. Oddly, the nurses had always "just eaten something, oh, not fifteen minutes before I arrived." Um, right.) I know that they get paid for their work, and that it is work, and not a personal favor. But their job is inside the family sphere and part of something so very intimate and central to the heart of me - of us - to the point where I can't always treat them as professionals. We force, ask, push, hope them into becoming people, and then relax a bit.

You can have a social exchange, or build a relationship of mutual caring with people. Use it to discharge debt to the point necessary. You can't do either, really, with a professional maintaining an appropriate emotional distance.

And a Wish is a gift bigger than anything we've seen yet, and given by people that don't have a relationship with either the Eldest or me. Yes, there's someone being paid somewhere, but we see the volunteers, the people giving of their time and representing those who gave of their wallet. It's the waving of a wand, held by people we don't know and who are careful to stay remote, and who will happily vanish, post-wave.

And it's just too damned big.

I just can't get comfortable with the idea. After all, look at my kid - he's the kid who throws rocks into the river, irritating painters who've driven wayyyy up to a scenic view.
He's the clown that mugs for the camera with his robotic Lego-thing.
And he's the quiet kid, relaxing post-swim with a book while the light falls just so.
He just doesn't need this. His life is full, rich with pleasures and replete with met needs. It's not uncomplicated, I'll grant you - but he doesn't need a magic wand. Nor can does he need a reward for the twisted, edged complexities of his early years - the kid doesn't remember them, and the Man and I flinch at the idea of a door prize.

Congratulations, your kid got knocked around, so he gets this.

or

Congratulations, you were battered while your kid was sick, so he gets this.

It's unnerving to have the societal powers-that-be offer this as a palliative, whether to their sense of justice or to my own. It's unsettling to have a wand waved to lift the Eldest out of his world, and into a fantastic place where Wishes are granted. Or, perhaps, to argue that he lives in this place, regardless of my stubborn hymns to ordinariness. And it seems ungrateful to be shifting in my seat when the fairy godmother(s) come to call. Or, hell, asking her to produce some ID.

But I am, regardless. I have a wonderful, vibrant son. He is enough, and beyond enough - and replete with our good fortune, the Man and I should gracefully decline the Wish.

But this is not our Wish - it's his. Which might just be why it is going to come true. And it might also be why at some point a mosaic of joy, gratitude and yes, tears, is going to sweep up behind me and smack me on the nose. Because maybe, at heart, my mutterings about not being deserving, not needing or wanting to ameliorate another's sense of guilt/need to act/memory - maybe? Maybe that's all just me, trying to insist that the past stay in the past.

And hoping that this Wish doesn't carry with it too great a burden of memory.

a note to the abandoned (part 1)

shhhhh. Keep it down - nobody knows I'm here. They all think I'm off advocating for something, somewhere.

Dear blog,

did you miss me? I've missed you. There's so much that I've wanted to tell you about the past year, and it slid right by. I read something months ago about how the primary cause of blog abandonment was lack of time, and I smirked. Swore that an added hour of driving in my day was going to do no such thing. Nope.

It did, rather, didn't it? My poor blog, home to fragments of posts, whose missing bits are doing their best to tunnel their way out. If they switched to pickaxes, or a nice adze and dropped the electrons, I think they'd have more luck - and you, more posts. But I know that you won't mind a months-long blitz post on one, slim subject. Anthropomorphism is nice that way.

(Because I said so, that's why. And don't you wave Pirandello at me, hey?)

Now, where was I before the coloratura started up?

Right. There.

At some point in the past year, the Eldest turned 8. I find this thought somewhat hard to grasp, but he really is eight, and often, lately, shows a startling, lovely maturity. But on the day that he turned eight, he celebrated by swinging on the towel bar one too many times.

Creeeeaaaaunch, went the towel bar and the drywall in a lovely, delicate harmony.

Oooooooowwwwaaaaaaaiiiiiih! wailed the Eldest, dumped ceremoniously on his birthday ass.

Ahem, said the mama, and underlined the point. With a moderately straight face.

One might have thought that the Eldest's verve would be dampened by this, or that his newly eight-year-old sense of competency might have been shaken. Fifteen minutes later, one might have found that theory put to the test.

Oooops, said the Toddles, cheerfully. And bent over the clogged toilet bowl, the better to admire its contents. The Eldest joined him, and they considered specifics. Mooooo-om? called the Eldest, and explained the situation. The mama blinked, groaned and wrapped her fingers around a mug. Dropped the spatula into it. Just wait a minute, she told him, and reached to turn off the flame under her pot. I'll be right there.

The Eldest ran upstairs as the mama muttered to herself about small boys who will insist on using two and three tissues per wipe. Don't worry, Mum -I've taken care of it! floated back down the stairs. She blinked, and lifted her face in sudden alarm. Oh - honey - no! Wait for me, I'm on my way....

There was a pause.

There was an ominous sploooooooosh. And another, followed by a shpwhooooooor-splat-whshhhhhrrrr of overflow.

There were small boy voices, panicking. And there was much cleaning of floors and children.

After such a beginning, one might think that the Eldest's newly eight-year-old sense of competency might have been shaken. Oh, but wait - I already said that. And it wasn't the first time, was it? Yes, well, take that as a harbinger of things to come.

Oh, blog, this was the year of the jokester, in which the Eldest edged, then barged, then attempted to annex the wrong side of the line between funny and hurtful comments. He simply didn't see the line, sometimes, or the line paled in comparison to his comrades' snickers, or the line, he argued, was in the wrong place. If I don't mean to hurt someone's feelings, then why are they choosing to be hurt by X? he'd argue, and I was fairly certain that reader response lit theory wasn't going to clarify the situation.

(But Mr. Fish, my son shouldn't be kicked out of the room - there really IS a text in this class. I know, because he told me so himself.)

Meetings with teachers, talking about his disruptive behavior. Puzzling together over the patterns of his behavior, trying to stitch together a plan. Or at least a shared wry affection for the wee beastie. Watching sudden explosions at home, losing patience - and then, at last, preemptively losing patience. And hating myself for it.

And then the asthma diagnosis, which cravenly, I hope will explain far more than it should, and extract my lovely boy from the frustrating/lovely/infuriating/marvellous/aaaaaaugh that he is. Which it won't, of course.

And, and, and. It's been a very full chunk of year thus far, but alas, neither the Eldest nor I appear to be excessively daunted. Although my sense of competency has a few new dings and scrapes, I'll admit, and the kids have possibly maybe perhaps learned a few new words, which might oh concieveably be related to the Man's introduction of a cuss jar. Um. Still, he is marching onwards, a by-turns thoughtful, loving child with earnest eyes, and an uproariously charging rhino. Who giggles. I know that you boys will learn that you are living in a world with other people, and that you need to be mindful of the ways that your actions can affect those others, I sighed recently. You have the capacity to learn this, and to grow into wonderful mensches. I just wish you'd do it a little faster. There was silence from the back seat that morning. Yep, said the Eldest, thoughtfully. It's like that.

I sat there, torn between laughter, appreciation, and flinging my hands up. But then again, I'd spent much of the past seven months that way. And the kid was right, as it happens. Eight, as I'm learning, comes with a startling ability to phrase thoughts just so, splintered by a sweet worry that silences him, in case he might speak awry.

This past week, I've been inclined to think that he might worry less about saying the wrong thing, as we scurry around, preparing to pack goodness knows what in our bags, so as to go off and do something, somewhere. Because years ago, someone decided to point a magic wand our way. And shortly before his eight birthday, the Eldest finally found the right words to invoke it. And lo, he has made a Wish.

my imaginary cards can beat your imaginary cards

Okay, so let's take the sibling rivalry thing for granted - and don't tell me if your kids don't have that going on, because I really just don't want to know.

(Note: saying my kids never fight is up there in the Things Most Likely to Get You Flattened on the Playground list. It trails oh, my baby slept through the night from day one! but not by much. Capisce?)

So, we have sibs. We have arguments. We have me, periodically debating the usefulness of work it out for yourselves (translation: Eldest, you have to work this out, because your little brother is too young to be reasonable at this moment/on this issue, and I'm not getting involved) and if you started it, then I think it was fair that he walloped you (translation: violence breeds violence, and you guys are clearly going to have to learn that the hard way) with a chaser of he might've hit you first, but that was not okay behavior. And the new twist, I don't care if you hit him in an uber-dramatic way that you use when you play pretend war. If he doesn't realize that you are playing/you hit him hard enough, then it's not a game.

Etcetera.

To some degree, the fighting is wonderfully predictable: every day, between 5-6 pm, the boys decide to play a card game. They end up arguing over the rules (have you considered going over the rules before you start?) or over the general unfairness of Milady Luck, the game, the other kid's ability to draw a higher card, Pluto's demotion, and so on. Bitter voices rise, and someone flings cards with dramatic flair, someone else huffs off with admirable style.

A couple of months ago, I began playing Go Fish with the Toddles. By that point, he was persuaded that No Good could come of anything involving a deck of cards, but we turned Go Fish into a game of elaborate suggestions regarding the potential piscine population of lakes from Oregon to the Carolinas. Not to mention the occasional muddy puddle. The giggles eventually netted the Eldest, who began to play. And voila! I congratulated myself, the boys were playing games of manners and ritualized, cheerful jokes. I had rescued cards.

This is, of course, the turning point in the story - just as I'm feeling rather glossy and satisfied as a parent. Ready? Bladders empty? Okay, then.

Yesterday, driving home from various activities, both boys in tow, I heard one ask another for a dodo.

Do you have any dodos?

Why yes, I do! I have seven.

Oh, good - there are eight dodos in a kodak.*

(pause)

Do you have any orange dump trucks?

Oh, no - I only have drawbridges.

Oh, but I fished my wish! Great. Mom? Mom? Do you have any orange dump trucks? We're playing imaginary Go Fish.

And then we were off and running. We fished for drawbridges, cassowaries, extraordinarily long words by absolutely fictitious people (like supercalifragilisticexpialidocious), molybdenum and something igneous, but I couldn't tell you exactly what. Oh, and any number of bodily functions.

I was managing a tricky merge when, HEY! Give me back my cards!

Oh. Sorry. Here you go.

The Eldest exploded. Those are NOT my cards. Give me back my cards, you dimwit! MOM - make him give me back my cards!

I blinked.

He has your cards?

YES, I was told, emphatically. And he says that he gave them back, but these are NOT MY CARDS. My cards are much BETTER.

I couldn't eyeball the kid, to see if there was a twitch in his expression - but it didn't sound as if there was. Sorry, said the Toddles, still trying to play along. Here, these ones are yours.

There was a brief thoughtful moment in the back, and then an irate thwack, followed by an equal thwock. And to my astonishment, the Eldest began to wail.

He - he - MOM! he peeked! At my CARDS!

At which point, I did the sensible, loving thing, and laughed my ass off.

* kodak = set